Banaue Publacion--the heart of town
In some ways I feel like I am leaving just when I finally feel at home in Banaue. Perhaps I’ve been more open and engaged since I know I’m leaving soon and my time is limited. I’ve got to make the most of my time here. But really, since I’ve been back from my Easter retreat in Manila I feel like things have changed somehow. I think it’s me that’s changed, but it feels like it’s everything around me.
The family next door has seven kids. John John and Marty are two, and the other five are either students or work in Manila area. They’re all really successful and attend or attended one of the top schools in the country—University of the Philippines. Almost all of them came home for a period of time after Easter for their summer break (summer is from April to June in the Philippines). The house suddenly had all these lively college students and professionals and we’d sit around after dinner, chat, and play games. We watched movies downstairs huddled around Adam’s computer DVD player, grabbing fistfuls of homemade popcorn as we sat in the dark. It’s been really fun hanging out next door and I’ve been joining the family for lunch as well as dinner everyday. I just stopped caring so much about making my own meals exactly the way I like them.
I’m not sure what happened. I still feel good about my decision to go home early, but I also recognize with some regret that I went through the worst already. Adam and several of the Peace Corps volunteers feel like it took them almost a year to get comfortable in their sites and that the homesickness was extremely hard for them. All the barriers—cultural, language, age—get in the way and make it tough to feel like you can be yourself in the beginning.
After awhile, you just can’t hold up a pretense anymore; it’s just too exhausting. And there’s no point in being sad and lonely all the time either—that’s exhausting too. I don’t know—I think I just stopped resisting so much. I just decided to relax and smile and be myself. I know some of the language now, I know people, and I feel like I can walk around town and people know who I am—kids shout out to me in Ifugao, not English. I yell back to them in Ifugao too and they laugh. I don’t know what changed for me; maybe I just needed time. Maybe I just needed to move beyond myself.
Now I think about leaving and I feel sad. I know I’ll miss my family and I’ll miss the locals here whom I’ve connected with. I’ll miss the way people reach out to me, want to get to know me—how they care. In Denver I have a hard time finding people to hang out with—everyone’s so busy, so wrapped in their own world, and I work so much I get exhausted and don’t have energy. I hope to change that when I return, but some of it is just inherent in our culture. I will miss the community here, I realize, even though I initially resisted it. So many people came together to help me, to guide me; I will miss them. I can see that I feel at home here now, right before I’m about to leave.
It’s kind of wonderful actually—a nice way to end my time here. It’s a redemption of sorts: for the Banaue in my mind, and for the way I see myself. Finally, my heart opened up and let this place in.
In some ways I feel like I am leaving just when I finally feel at home in Banaue. Perhaps I’ve been more open and engaged since I know I’m leaving soon and my time is limited. I’ve got to make the most of my time here. But really, since I’ve been back from my Easter retreat in Manila I feel like things have changed somehow. I think it’s me that’s changed, but it feels like it’s everything around me.
The family next door has seven kids. John John and Marty are two, and the other five are either students or work in Manila area. They’re all really successful and attend or attended one of the top schools in the country—University of the Philippines. Almost all of them came home for a period of time after Easter for their summer break (summer is from April to June in the Philippines). The house suddenly had all these lively college students and professionals and we’d sit around after dinner, chat, and play games. We watched movies downstairs huddled around Adam’s computer DVD player, grabbing fistfuls of homemade popcorn as we sat in the dark. It’s been really fun hanging out next door and I’ve been joining the family for lunch as well as dinner everyday. I just stopped caring so much about making my own meals exactly the way I like them.
I’m not sure what happened. I still feel good about my decision to go home early, but I also recognize with some regret that I went through the worst already. Adam and several of the Peace Corps volunteers feel like it took them almost a year to get comfortable in their sites and that the homesickness was extremely hard for them. All the barriers—cultural, language, age—get in the way and make it tough to feel like you can be yourself in the beginning.
After awhile, you just can’t hold up a pretense anymore; it’s just too exhausting. And there’s no point in being sad and lonely all the time either—that’s exhausting too. I don’t know—I think I just stopped resisting so much. I just decided to relax and smile and be myself. I know some of the language now, I know people, and I feel like I can walk around town and people know who I am—kids shout out to me in Ifugao, not English. I yell back to them in Ifugao too and they laugh. I don’t know what changed for me; maybe I just needed time. Maybe I just needed to move beyond myself.
Now I think about leaving and I feel sad. I know I’ll miss my family and I’ll miss the locals here whom I’ve connected with. I’ll miss the way people reach out to me, want to get to know me—how they care. In Denver I have a hard time finding people to hang out with—everyone’s so busy, so wrapped in their own world, and I work so much I get exhausted and don’t have energy. I hope to change that when I return, but some of it is just inherent in our culture. I will miss the community here, I realize, even though I initially resisted it. So many people came together to help me, to guide me; I will miss them. I can see that I feel at home here now, right before I’m about to leave.
It’s kind of wonderful actually—a nice way to end my time here. It’s a redemption of sorts: for the Banaue in my mind, and for the way I see myself. Finally, my heart opened up and let this place in.
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